Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

“Nearly two years had passed with Lucas and his father working together. They’d pooled their earnings and built up a savings account that, along with a new mortgage, finally made it feasible for them to make significant repairs to their home.”

“Sounds like things were going well for them,” Barbara said.

“Yeah, until the economy weakened. The construction company Peter and Lucas worked for initially laid off employees as things slowed down. Finally, it closed its doors. Peter and Lucas couldn’t make enough money doing part-time jobs to stay current on the mortgage. When they became six months delinquent, the lender foreclosed on the property. They lost their home about a month ago.”

Doherty stopped at that point and just stared at Barbara.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me?” she asked.

Doherty fluttered his hands and barely shook his head.

And the kid has now lost his father and sister , Barbara thought. She thanked Father Doherty for his time and let him escort her out to the sanctuary. Although the bodies had long since been removed, there was plenty of evidence that a ghastly event had occurred there. Stains in the carpet , the coppery odor of blood, the stench of other body fluids, the floor and pews littered with parishioners’ personal effects. The room was cold because someone had left the front doors of the church open — maybe to vent some of the smells. Barbara looked out through the open doors and saw snow flurries falling, blown around in an anarchical pattern by gusts of wind.

Great, snow in Albuquerque , she thought. A perfect addition to an already crappy day.

“When will you be finished with” — Doherty waved his hands around to indicate the large space — “all of this?”

She didn’t want to describe the church as a crime scene that needed to be processed. Instead, she said, “I’ll do everything in my power to expedite the investigation.”

After Father Doherty left her, Barbara went outside to her unmarked vehicle and drove to the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office headquarters in downtown Albuquerque. In the Detective Squad Room, she called Susan. “You with the Brennan kid?”

“I’m just a couple blocks away. I got hung up on a phone call from the lieutenant. You finished with the priest?”

“Yeah,” Barbara said. “He’s pretty torn up. You can imagine. He saw it all happen. He had a front row seat through the entire attack. Probably wondering how he escaped injury. Call me when you leave the Brennan apartment. I’ll meet you somewhere for an early breakfast.”

“I’ll be glad to get this over with,” Susan said. “That poor kid is probably suffering something awful.” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “I hope he can take some satisfaction from taking down the guy with the machete. Lucas Brennan probably saved a lot of lives.”

Lucas had been trying to mentally and emotionally process the events of the past few hours. Like a terrible dream, everything that had happened seemed surreal. He checked his cell phone and noted the time: 2:00 a.m. He walked around the rundown second floor apartment he and his father had shared for the past month. The brown stains on the ceiling from roof leaks, the threadbare soiled carpet, the cracked paint on the walls, the dated kitchen appliances, the rust stains in the sinks and the shower sickened him. He moved to the front window and parted the curtains. The deputy who had driven him home was still posted outside in his cruiser. A detective had, at first, wanted him to go to the sheriff’s department to be questioned, but she’d changed her mind when he’d asked to be allowed to go home. She’d agreed if a deputy accompanied him.

He was aware of shouting coming from the apartment next door — a regular occurrence at all hours of the night — but ignored it the way one ignores — even becomes inured to — the hum of an air conditioner or the vibrations from and sounds of passing traffic. But exhaustion had set in and he finally collapsed on the saggy couch they’d salvaged from a thrift shop. He barely remembered a call that had come in from one of the female detectives a few minutes earlier. She’d told him she would be by in a little while. What more can I tell her than I already did at the church? he wondered. He looked around the living room and felt a crushing sadness.

“What did faith in God and in your fellow man get you, Dad?” he whispered. “It’s just Eddie and me now.” A sudden and brief sob broke from his throat. Then his cell phone rang, startling him. He was about to ignore it but sneaked a peek at the screen and saw that the caller was someone named Stanley Wisniewski. At first, the name didn’t resonate. But then he remembered that Eddie had mentioned Wisniewski. How the two had met in Afghanistan and become fast friends.

He answered the call. “This is Lucas Brennan.”

“Lucas, it’s Stan Wisniewski. I’m a friend of your brother, Eddie. I’m call—”

Wisniewski’s voice cracked. Then he choked out a sob.

Lucas’s breath caught in his chest; he couldn’t seem to breathe. He finally expelled the air in his lungs. “Stan, what’s happened?”

Wisniewski coughed, paused a couple seconds, then said in a heavy, raspy voice, “Eddie and I have been best friends since we shipped over here.” Another pause, then: “We agreed to notify our families if something happened to either one of us. I’m sorry to have to tell you that... Eddie was shot in a fire fight today.”

Lucas felt icy fingers penetrate his skull, cascade through his chest, and down into his gut. His whole body was suddenly cramped.

“Is Eddie okay? Is he going to be all right?”

“He didn’t make it, Lucas.”

Wisniewski broke down and cried. He sounded inconsolable. His words were incomprehensible. Lucas’s eyes welled with tears, which rolled down his cheeks. His throat felt tight and dry. He didn’t have the strength to move.

“The Army will officially notify you about what happened,” Wisniewski continued in a hoarse voice that was now little more than a whisper. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to bring you this news. I know what your family meant to him. How close you and Eddie were.” He stopped for several seconds this time, then said, “I’m so sorry, Lucas. I’m going to miss Eddie so much.”

Lucas felt as though his insides had been invaded by creatures trying to bore their way out. His hands shook and he had to squeeze the cell phone to keep from dropping it. He tried to thank Wisniewski for calling but couldn’t get the words out. He mumbled something but wasn’t certain what. He felt as though he was going to scream, but suddenly focused on how he would tell Lois and his father about Eddie. Then he shook his head. Momentarily, he’d put aside what had happened to them. But then the realization of his father’s and sister’s deaths struck him like a lightning bolt. There was no one left with whom he could share his losses. His family was gone. God and man had abandoned him. Tears continued to cloud his vision as he stood and flung his phone against the wall.

A banshee-like wail reverberated off the walls and ceiling of the apartment. The sound made Lucas feel as though he’d been transported to an unearthly place. It wasn’t until he’d grasped that the noise had come from him that his sorrow turned to an all-encompassing anger, and then that anger turned to rage. Everything he had loved and believed in was gone. Gone forever.

And, in that very moment, his mind seemed to come apart and then repair itself. Like pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly before and, despite a completely different design, fit together again. He felt transformed. The memory of how he’d attacked the killer in the church flooded his brain. Images of his hand holding the heavy object that the priest had dropped flashed before his eyes. As though watching a slow-motion movie, he saw his arm repeatedly rise and fall as he struck the killer in his face, turning the man’s features into a ghastly mess. A warm rush flowed through his body and he suddenly felt at peace.